Jeff Jacobson - Growth

Charlie drove over the outfield fence and pulled around the trees in a tight loop. He kept going, circling around and around, creating a kind of soggy DMZ, free of the tendrils.

Eventually, Axel climbed down out of the tree with his shotgun and blasted the closest tendril into three pieces. Purcell followed and got close enough to the smaller chunks and put one or two well-placed rounds into the center, leaving the limbs to mindlessly twitch in the grass.

Sandy yelled out of her window at Kevin. “Don’t you dare come down until I come get you.”

Charlie pulled close to the base of the tree and everybody piled into the back of the tow truck. Kevin helped Puffing Bill down onto the roof first, saying, “Once I helped him up the first couple of branches, he climbed like he was part squirrel.”

Sandy pulled off her own mask and put it on her son. She knew it was probably too late to make a difference, but didn’t think it would hurt. Then she pulled him tight. Tears spilled silently down her cheeks. Puffing Bill sat quietly and leaned into her.

They heard the distant sound of helicopters. After a moment, though, the noise faded and was gone. She said, “We should go.”

Purcell knocked on the roof. “You waiting for them to come back? Move it.” Everyone in the back arranged themselves around the large boom and got comfortable.

Charlie pulled away, and they dragged the old, leaking tanker back through the town, following his original path through town. It was easy to see; he’d left a swath of broken limbs and ash-like decaying tendrils.

“That’s your pesticide,” Sandy said to Purcell. “From your barn.”

Purcell nodded. “But I wasn’t using it in the fields. No, no. I emptied all my fertilizer and pesticide into that tank so I could show ’em the empty containers for the certification. Thing is, you know how expensive it is to dispose of all that shit? Figured I’d find someplace safe for all of it.”

Sandy gave him a look.

Purcell drew back, pretending to be insulted. “What do you take me for? You think I’m gonna pour that crap in the nearest ditch? No, I woulda found a good spot for it. Like in Beverly Hills. Someplace in Hollywood at least. Get folks’ attention.”

She fiddled with her radio, spinning through the different channels. Occasionally, she caught glimmers of the conversation between the helicopter pilots and three or four agencies vying for control of the situation. It sounded like the helicopter pilots were reluctant to go back through the town.

Once she heard, “…not prepared for that kind of armed response…”

“Roger that.” The creeping fuzz of static obscured the rest. Then, “…subjects will be neutralized as soon as quarantine measures are finalized.”

They listened, but couldn’t hear anything else.

“They’re coming back,” Sandy said.

Purcell was quiet for a while. “Might be. Might not. Thinking they woulda been through here by now, if they were coming back. Something else is going on.”

They stopped by the Korner Kafe, out where the streets were clear and empty. No tendrils were visible. They left the tow truck and the tanker trailer in the middle of the highway and everybody piled into the Suburban. Charlie got in behind the wheel and they rolled out of town in the gray light of predawn.

Charlie could see lights flashing ahead and yelled through the back window. “It’s a roadblock.”

“Slow down. But don’t stop. Keep going. We stop, we may not get going again,” Purcell said.

“It’s a roadblock, I’m telling you. We have to stop.”

“Keep going.” Purcell made it clear that he wasn’t arguing.

Interstate 72 waited ahead, with four on- and off-ramps curving between the expressway and Highway 67. The highway on both sides of the expressway had been blocked off with blinking sawhorses and concrete barriers. New lanes of traffic had been marked with traffic cones. A number of military vehicles waited under the overpass.

Despite Purcell’s order, Charlie pulled up and stopped.

They couldn’t see anything moving. The vehicles were empty. Everyone had disappeared.

A radio squawked from one of the Humvees. “Station thirteen, come in. Come in station thirteen.”

Sandy turned her gaze to the cornfields that surrounded them. The green stalks almost glowed in the morning light. The effect made her think of the field as a vast emerald ocean, and predators lurked in the depths.

Purcell felt her unease. “We should keep moving.”

Charlie pulled through the checkpoint. He eased the Suburban to the right, following the on-ramp as it curled around to head east on I-72. The expressway was empty. Billows of black smoke roiled across the road.

Nobody said anything.

Sandy looked to the north, back to Parker’s Mill. Smaller wisps of black smoke still smoldered in the town itself.

Then, something else. A gray cloud, erupting like ash from a volcano, rose into the pale blue sky. It twisted and swirled, almost as if it was alive. Sandy took Kevin’s hand and leaned forward. She tapped Charlie’s shoulder and pointed at the ominous gray cloud. “Drive faster.”

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2014 Jeff Jacobson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-0-7860-3080-4

First electronic edition: July 2014

ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3081-1

ISBN-10: 0-7860-3081-X